


Partners

by alienor_woods



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Life-Affirming Sex, Mindhunters AU, Partners to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods/pseuds/alienor_woods
Summary: Clarke’s brain is already scattered after the events of the day, and she doesn’t stop it from tripping over into imagining what Bellamy looks like under all of his clothes. It’s surely a better train of thought than letting her mind replay her near-murder and murder-bystanding for the hundredth time tonight.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 174





	Partners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storyskein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyskein/gifts).



> For storyskein, who ages ago asked me for some life-affirming smut against a Mindhunter backdrop.

Clarke’s hands are shaking. Still.

She’s been checked over by the EMTs. She’s been given a full debriefing at the local office. She’s even had a quick session with the trauma psychologist in her windowless cell of a therapy room.

It’s been hours, and her hands still give a noticeable quiver when she reaches out for the half-drunk bottle of Bud Light on the little table in her hotel room.

Then again, she’d almost died today. It’s not like she doesn’t know _why_ they’re shaking. The unsub they’d been investigating hadn’t just _known_ he was being tailed, he’d gone the extra mile to lay a false trail for Clarke. 

Stupidly, cockily, she hadn’t waited for Bellamy. Just followed the unsub right around the corner and taken a brass-knuckled fist to her cheek. Her gut. Found herself shoved against the alley’s brick wall with strong hands around her neck, determined to choke the life from her. 

The pound of her racing, deoxygenated pulse in her ears drowned out the rapport of her partner’s boots on the sidewalk and his bark of her name; the spots in her vision blocked out his figure in her peripheral vision. 

She didn’t miss the gunshots, though. Bellamy emptied his clip into the guy’s torso with a _rat-a-tat-tat_ staccato, and he’d bled out on the ground, right there at her feet. 

He didn’t look much worse for the wear. Bellamy, that is. He sits cattycorner to her in the mid-rate hotel room, his knees spread casually wide. When he lifts his own beer to his mouth to drain the last swallows, there aren’t any shivers that make him miss his mouth and have to try again.

He rises to his feet and nods at her own bottle. “Another one?” It’s the first question in a while. He’d been held up at the station, too, having to turn over his weapon to the forensic team and give an account of the event to internal affairs. 

On their way back to the hotel, he’d pulled into a corner store and killed the ignition. He didn’t ask if she wanted to come in, or if she needed anything. Without a word, he headed inside, reappearing moments later with a six pack that he that he dropped into the backseat.

He’s got his own room next door, but he’d followed her into hers without asking, and it doesn’t seem like he’s interested in leaving anytime soon. Clarke doesn’t mind. She’d rather be awake with company than alone in a dark, unfamiliar room. And in the grand scheme of things, there are worse people to get sad-drunk with than Bellamy Blake.

She nods. “Yeah, I’ll take another if you’re up.” Her vocal chords still feel raspy and raw. She wonders how long that will last.

He’s not a small guy. He’s gotta bend down to reach into the minifridge, which makes his slacks stretch nicely over his also-nice ass. Clarke’s brain is already scattered after the events of the day, and she doesn’t stop it from tripping over into imagining what her partner looks like under his clothes. It’s surely a better train of thought than letting her mind replay her near-murder and murder-bystanding for the hundredth time tonight.

He turns back around. She jerks her eyes from his belt buckle back to his face. “I saw that,” he remarks with a twinkle in his eye, passing over her third bottle of the night.

“Sorry,” she says. She doesn’t mean it, it’s just the most polite thing she can think of to say after being caught undressing another person with her eyes.

“Oh, no I wasn’t complaining,” he says as he sits down. His grin is a little crooked, and he looks at her for a minute, thinking, before he comes to some sort of decision. “C’mere, Clarke.”

“Where? Over there?” she nods her head at him, on the other side of the little table. It’s just a step away, but a big one, one of the biggest she’s thought about taking in recent months.

“Yeah, c’mere,” He leaves his beer on the table and reaches out to take her hand in his own, tugging a little.

She resists, but only a little, letting out a flustered huff or two as Bellamy pulls her between his knees, and then down onto his lap. They’ve never done this before. Lap-sitting. Two years of partnership has turned them into prolific huggers, and they’ve kissed once under the department’s mistletoe, but this...

This is different, Clarke settling onto his firmly muscled thigh. She still clutches her beer in one hand and takes a sip from it, just to do something in the quiet while he looks at her. 

He rubs her back, his hand wide and warm through her white dress shirt. It looses a sigh from her, quiet and deep from the dark knot between her ribs. When he finally speaks, it’s in a lower cadence than she’s used to hearing from him. “You doing okay, babe?”

She chuckles reflexively. “‘Babe’?”

He doesn’t take it back, though, and she doesn’t push off of his lap, either. His hand keeps up its slow passes up and down her spine, urging her to take deeper and deeper breaths. Clarke’s gaze drifts and locks onto the decorative curlicues of the wallpaper. After a long moment, he bounces his knee and jostles her from her thoughts. “C’mon. Talk to me.”

“Well.” She glances at him, watches him watch her with that furrowed, worried brow. Her throat bobs. “He spooked me pretty good. It’s what he wanted, and he...got it.” It’s an admission she can only make to him. She couldn’t entrust it to anyone else. Indra would scoff that the unsub hadn’t even drawn blood. Kane would put her on a desk for a week and send her to daily therapy sessions. And her mother--her mother would declare that it’s all proof that Clarke wasn’t cut out for the Bureau from the start.

But saying it aloud brings cathartic relief. Even Bellamy seems relieved. His brow smoothes, and she feels lines of tension in his body soften and melt. 

He nods and rubs her thigh with his free hand. “He spooked me pretty good, too,” he tells her. She’s only heard this quiet voice of his here and there, and warmth curls in her chest when he leans forward and presses a kiss to her shoulder. 

She breathes his name, and then he kisses her, just once with a firm, sure mouth, before pulling back and bumping her nose with his. “Wait for me next time, alright?”

Clarke nods and wraps her arms around his shoulders, kissing him this time. Within minutes they’re breathing heavier, clinging to each other desperately with curled fingers and greedy tongues. He slides his fingers into her hair and makes a loose fist, tilting her head for a better angle. The tug makes her shiver now for another reason entirely. That shakes loose something else between them, something they’d both been trying for too long now to keep leashed and under control.

One minute they’re making out like teenagers with ten minutes until curfew, the next minute they’re stumbling to the bed, leaving clothing scattered in their wake. 

Her knees hit the edge of the mattress and she collapses onto it. Bellamy cups her face with his palms and thumbs the little beauty mark on her lip. “You’re the best thing in my life, Griffin, you know that?”

“You’re just saying that because I’ve got my hand on your dick,” Clarke demurs, tugging on the length of him springing free from his slacks. 

“Can’t both things be true?” he chuckles. “Besides, I’ve thought a _lot_ lately about what your hand on my dick might feel like,” he admits, leaning down to kiss her again. She pumps him with a loose fist, mindful of her dry palm, and he groans against her mouth. “And fuck, it feels better than I thought it would.”

“Good, because it’s my turn, next,” she tells him, moving up the bed to lie back on the pillows.

“Yeah? What’ve you been thinking about?” he asks, following her moves, seemingly unable to stop kissing her now that he’s started. His mouth moves to her throat and down her chest, sliding a hand behind her back to unhook her bra. 

She lets him play with her tits for a minute; knowing he’s thought about them, just like every other man she’s slept with has been obsessed with them. But she’s antsy, nearly crawling out of her skin, and all of a sudden needing to be full and _alive_. She takes his wrist and guides his fingers to her cunt.

Bellamy breathes a curse against her mouth when his fingers sink easily between her folds. “Wet already, huh?” he asks, probing with one finger, then another.

She answers him with a moan, letting her head fall back onto the pillow. He’s got big hands, hands that look at home around a glock and the gearshift of his jeep. “This,” she manages to get out, her legs thrashing a little when he scissors his long, sure fingers to open her wider. “ _This_ is what I’ve been thinking about.”

She gets a foot flat on the mattress and levers herself to meet the push and pull of his fingers in her, helping him fuck her. He remembers he has a thumb, and uses it to swipe over her clit, muttering encouragement into her skin as her speech garbles and a flush sets in across her chest.

“In me, please,” she begs, tangling her fingers in his raucous mop of curls. He kisses her, all messy tongue and clacking teeth, and reaches for the complimentary condom in the dresser drawer. In the space of a few sharp breaths, he sheathes himself in the latex, and then in Clarke.

“Oh, babe,” he moans into her neck, hips already moving quick and shallow. “You’re so tight, fuck _me_.” 

“You _are_ fucking me,” she reminds him. She clutches him to her, urging him down onto his elbows. He breathes something about his weight and she shakes her head, leaning up for another sloppy kiss. He kisses like he fucks, honest and rough, uninterested in teasing for the sake of teasing, and Clarke is suddenly unsure that she can go back to _not_ kissing him every chance she gets.

She curls her fingers in his shoulders and drags them down his back, relishing his hiss of pain-pleasure and the nip he gives her lower lip in response. She finds his ass and digs her nails in there, too, urging him deeper, harder, faster.

It’s quick, fast, and perfect, with the headboard smacking the wall and Bellamy grunting with the effort of making it so. One of her hands slips between their stomachs and flies over her clit, and the pulses in her cunt make him bury his face in her neck and whine.

She closes her eyes against the mundane furnishings of her hotel room and focuses on the length and width of him inside of her, his firm belly flexing against the back of her hand, his curls soft against her cheek. Like he can sense she needs it, he mutters her name, and _babe_ , and _need you with me,_ and she goes spinning over the edge of her pleasure.

Through the throes of her orgasm, she hears him praising her, telling her how _good_ she is, before his own climax cuts off the words tumbling from his lips. 

She finds herself tracing fingers up and down his back, enjoying the heavy drape of his warm and alive body over hers and feeling the swift thud of his heartbeat slow. 

Finally, her partner sighs and rolls away, softening cock slipping free of her body. With a huff’s exhale, he props himself up on an elbow. Bellamy looks down at her, taking in her heavy-lidded eyes, sweaty hair, and flushed cheeks. His eyes drop to her throat, and she knows without a mirror that the unsub’s bruises must be getting ugly. He reaches out, but instead of touching where the other man nearly choked the life from her, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of her face and then drops his palm to rest on her chest, right over her heart.

Clarke returns the affectionate gesture with one of her own, lifting a finger and drawing it down his nose, to the scar that cuts across his lips. Something else she’s thought of doing, but never had the courage, the opportunity, to until here and now.

He kisses her finger. “I’m here for you,” he promises. “For anything.”

“I’m here for you, too. For anything.”

His wink is tired and well-fucked, but it’s there all the same. “What else are partners for?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts and feedback! Drop 'em below. <3


End file.
